The Longest Day
by CosmicImbalance
Summary: Agent Peggy Carter is having a bit of a long day. Luckily, it's almost over-that is, until the grinning Leviathan operative smashes something on the ground between them, a bright light flashes, and...well, apparently, tears in the space-time continuum aren't just for summoning massive alien armies anymore.
1. Prologue: A Day in the Life, 1946

**A/N:** Kudos to whoever gets the reference I made in the title right off the bat.

Yeah, I should be working on my Assassin's Creed fic, but I hit midterms and a wall labeled 'Writer's Block' and the plot generator in my brain started spitting out Star-Spangled-Man-With-A-Plan-themed stuff.

Thank you, Dad, for hooking me on _Agents of SHIELD _and _Agent Carter _and inspiring me to rewatch everything in the Marvel Cinematic Universe because I have a fetish for interlocking timelines.

This prologue is a little short, only a thousand-ish words, and really pathetic in terms of dialogue but...oh my god that is a dissected giraffe please please stop fondling that laryngeal nerve people never ever take biology if you are squeamish.

...let's just get on with the story. I need to find a toilet in which to vomit.

**Disclaimer:** Screw disclaimers. I know I don't own the Avengers. I know I don't own Agent Carter. More importantly, you know I know. Most importantly, I don't own Chris Evans, which really, is the greatest tragedy of all.

…

**The Longest Day**

…

Prologue: A Day in the Life, 1946

It had been, decidedly, a long and taxing day for a certain Agent Peggy Carter.

First, the radiator in her brand new flat had started malfunctioning in the early morning, heating the flat to boiling. Flinging open the windows hadn't helped much, as a heat wave had hit the city the day before, bringing her bedroom down from 'volcanic' to merely 'scorching'. The walk to work had been been utterly miserable in the heat, even in the lightest of her dresses, and the calluses on her heels had given with sweat and transformed into blisters thanks to her nylons and heels. She had practically hobbled into the SSR, and had been briefly relieved by the fact that all of the switchboard girls looked just as bad as she felt. Even normally-cheerful Rose could only give Peggy a weary nod, dabbing her sweaty forehead as she buzzed Peggy in. Peggy had straightened, ignoring the pain in her feet, and strode in- the other agents' misogynistic tendencies hadn't ceased with her prodigal return after defeating the Leviathan doctor who had killed Chief Dooley, and hell if Peggy Carter was going to show a shred of weakness to these lunkheads. Well, lunkheads and one gentleman, she amended, as Sousa had welcomed her with a warm smile and an offering of ice water. Her good nature abruptly ended, however, as another agent swept past, sending Sousa stumbling into her just as she tilted the water back. While the ice water was lovely on her sweaty skin, it was decidedly unlovely on her dress. She swore vehemently before brushing of a blushing and stammering Sousa and marching to the locker room past laughing agents. Really! It was if they were all children! To make matters worse, the spare blouse she had tucked away was white, and her brassiere was both damp and black. Blushing furiously, she walked back into the bullpen, greeted by wolf whistles. She snatched up Sousa's discarded sportcoat and buttoned it over her now see-through blouse as she made her way to her desk, refusing to look at the red-faced man. Of course, the moment she sat down, Chief Thompson-ugh, that was still galling, even if his attitude towards her had improved somewhat-emerged from his office and set a tall stack of files down on her desk with a terse "Look into this" before vanishing back into his office, where a suspicious humming was emanating from. If that bastard had a fan-! She had shaken her head and muttered dark things before buckling down on the paperwork. Leaving aside still-intermittent coffee-fetching, paperwork was Peggy's least favorite part of the job. Give her a few clues, a gun, and someone to chase, and she was happy. While an excellent analyst, she just couldn't bring herself to enjoy deskwork like some paperpushers she had known during the war. And now she had a whole stack of papers to push around.

Things had started to look up around closing time- the papers she had been sorting through all day actually helped her determine that a pattern of Leviathan dead drop locations and pick up times around the city, with the closest drop only a few blocks away, and the likely pick up being later in the evening. She hesitated only briefly before leaving the office alone, pistol tucked into the back of her skirt. She had a bad habit of trying to take things on alone, something she had been trying to break herself of, but this time, she was only doing some observation. If everything went well, no back up would be necessary. Nevertheless, she wrote a quick note on Sousa's empty desk explaining her plan before heading out.

Locating the dead drop had been a bit of a task. Based on her analysis, she could figure out the block the drop was located on, but not much else. Dead drops were meant to be entirely inconspicuous to the common observer- only a person who knew what they were looking for would be able to identify a drop location. Peggy had no idea what she was looking for, and she couldn't very well peek into every nook and cranny on the block without either getting arrested or attacked, she was quite sure. She opted to wait for the Leviathan operative instead, and luckily, people-watching from an optimally placed bistro with tables outside was far from suspicious. Unluckily, it meant she would be missing dinner with Angie, and while the waitress/actress was generally understanding about the nature of Peggy's work these days, when push came to shove, she was a civilian with a normal schedule-a normal schedule that included twice-a-week dinners to work with Peggy on her new open-and-honest policy. That, and the fact that is was still positively roasting, even as the sun began to set, and there was no way that Peggy was taking off her ill-gotten sport coat to reveal either her underthings or her weapon in public, no matter how miserable she felt. And she was feeling absolutely miserable an hour later as the streetlamps flickered on and the waiter began to shoot her nasty looks. Taking that as a sign to leave, Peggy stood, just in time to spot what was undoubtedly the operative she was looking for. Who else would be wearing a trenchcoat in this heat? She made her way down the street parallel to the operative, watching in her periphery as he approached a mailbox and stopped. She kept walking a ways more before stopping and pulling a compact out of her purse. Watching in the small mirror, she saw the operative open a panel on the side of the mailbox and withdraw a small wrapped item. A secret compartment in the mailbox then-not the most original of drops, but still effective. She snapped her mirror shut and began to carefully tail the man. She wanted to know not just the location of the drop, but the location of the Leviathan safehouse the operative was taking to which the operative was taking the package. Perhaps the day could be salvaged after all.

A few hours later, she reevaluated her opinion and rather grumpily called it a loss. The operative must have noticed he was being followed, or the SOP for Leviathan operatives post-dead drop retrieval involved criss-crossing Manhattan for ages before returning to wherever they came from. Either way, her feet were throbbing and she was sweaty and exhausted and absolutely sick of this unbelievably bad, unbelievably long day. Luckily, though, it was almost over. She checked her watch, before glancing back at the still-walking Leviathan operative- nearly midnight. Six minutes till a brand new day, hopefully with little in the way of brand-new problems.

And of course, just as a tiny spark of hope for a better day tomorrow flared within her, the Leviathan operative stopped and turned to face her, looking unerringly at her through the crowd of people and cars that still hustled through New York City this late at night-particularly in this locale. Peggy apparently had followed the operative to Times Square, a familiar landmark, and certainly not the best place for a confrontation. She narrowed her eyes and palmed her gun, scanning the crowd in case of back up. Surprisingly, she didn't see anyone moving to support the operative, or even anyone who looked to be potentially dangerous. Her eyes returned to the operative. His head tilted back slightly in a clear challenge. Relatively far away as she was, Peggy could still see the scar that came from the removed voice box with the shift of the man's collar. Another Finow veteran, then. Positively wonderful, that reminder of Doctor Ivchenko.

She approached slowly, hand poised behind her back, ready to pluck her pistol from her waistband and shoot in an instant. She stopped a good ten feet from the man, favoring caution. The flow of the late-night crowd continued around them unimpeded, but seemed to instinctively veer away from the gap between Peggy and the operative, leaving them in their own little bubble.

"How did you know I was here?" Peggy asked casually.

The operative slowly pulled out a hand-held vocoder and held it against his throat. "Recognized you at drop. Preferred not to engage. You are persistent, however," he said in a familiar mechanical croak.

"That I am," admitted Peggy. "I couldn't very well let you slip through my fingers." She shivered slightly as a cold wind blew out of nowhere, drying her sweaty skin instantly to freezing. Thunder crackled far in the distance. A storm was blowing in, no surprise, considering the earlier heat.

The Leviathan operative gave a rather macabre grin. "So have discovered. Cannot permit follow."

Peggy arched an eyebrow and coolly pulled her gun, expertly training it at center body mass. "If you won't allow me to follow you, then I suppose I'll just have to take you in." Someone in the late-night crowd spotted the gun and let out a scream echoed by thunder, which seemed nearer now.

"Cannot permit," said the operative again, still grinning. "Leviathan rises, Agent Carter."

Things seemed to happen very quickly, then. Before Peggy could pull the trigger, the man smashed something small and glasslike against the pavement. She lifted her sleeve to her face to prevent inhalation, but no gas appeared from the shattered whatever-it-was. Rather, it pulsed with yellow light, disturbingly like the grenade she had once so painstakingly disassembled. Fear flashed within her, as she recalled the bombings at the Roxxon plant and the bay-had the operative made some sort of suicide play? The yellow light pulsed faster and more intensely at her feet, and she turned to run, a scream of warning on her lips.

It never came. Instead, everything flashed an intense, blinding yellow for a single instant. Lightning crackled through the sky, followed shortly by the boom of thunder. The skies opened up, and across the city, bells tolled midnight.

But no one was there to see the start of the new day. Times Square had emptied with the coming of the first few drops of rain. All that remained was a black scorch mark, easily ten feet wide, on the pavement. Agent Peggy Carter and the Leviathan operative had simply...vanished.


	2. 1: In Which Times Square is Aptly Named

A/N: I have discovered that I am a monumentally tragic writer. Also, I really need to do schoolwork instead of writing fanfiction. Alas, my GPA…!

Yeah, so not getting into college ever. No seriously- I've been rejected from all of the colleges that I applied to. Well on my way to being a starving artist.

Also, screw you, Tony Stark. I want to write you. I really do. But I just can't seem to come up with fitting wisecracks. My mind just isn't that way. I would consult my sister, but she'd just snark my head off, and I hear it's really hard to write if you've been decapitated.

Disclaimer: It would be kinda cool to own a JumboTron. But I don't. Just like I don't own the Avengers, Captain America, or Agent Carter. I just own the DVDs and a bunch of the episodes, respectively.

...

Chapter 1: In Which Times Square Is Aptly Named

For a moment- for an eternity-everything was a brilliant, retina-searing yellow-white, like staring intently at the filament of light bulb. The muted din of the late-night Times-Square crowd had surged, roaring into deafening white noise.

And then, just as suddenly as the light came, it was gone, darks spots coalescing into blurry shapes of people, cars, and buildings. All of which were _wrong _to Agent Peggy Carter. The people-thousands of people-were dressed strangely and acting strangely, gawking at the too-tall buildings covered in shimmering and shifting advertisements and lights. It was Times Square, undoubtedly- the layout was identical to the place Peggy had been a moment before-but everything else had the sky was bright and sunny and cloudless, no hints of the storm that had been forming before the flash of light. In some distant part of her mind, she registered that the Leviathan operative was gone, and that she was standing stock-still and gaping at nothing and everything, but she was in too much shock to take notice.

Then the din of the crowd changed in pitch-general chatter transforming into sounds of surprise and amazement. Peggy snapped out of her shock instantly, fingers tightening around her pistol, ready for the threat. Following the gaze of some of the oddly-dressed individuals around her, she looked up. Her jaw dropped again.

There, hovering in the sky, was what looked like a red-and-gold suit of armor, tailed by an odd cross between an airplane and a helicopter.

"It's the Avengers!" someone in the crowd screamed excitedly. Like that first shout was a signal, a massive cheer swept through the square, startling Peggy even more. What on earth was going on?

Then the flying metal armor _spoke, _and Peggy Carter decided she had inhaled some sort of hallucinogen, because of all of the crazy things she's seen, this just took the damned cake and threw it right out the window.

"Hey there, Citizens of Earth! Yes, I am Iron Man, the most awe-inspiring of the Avengers. No, you are not being punked. It is true-your day has just been made infinitely better because I have graced it with my presence!" Oddly, the crowd cheered as it-he?-finished his arrogant speech. The cheering and whistling continued for a few more moments before the armor moved its arms in a 'quiet down now' gesture. Obediently, the crowd hushed. Peggy could _feel _them listening.

"Now, as you know, we Avengers believe it is our personal responsibility to make sure that none of you are threatened by extranormal forces, if you all remember the Chitauri Invasion and the War for Earth-" the crowd made a deep, rumbling noise of anger "-I thought so. Now, approximately, oh, two minutes and forty-seven seconds ago, scanners at the Avengers tower picked up a small tear in the space-time continuum. If you'll all remain calm, SHIELD has been so kind as to cordon off Times Square- we can't have any Lokis running off and ruining the party-so we're just going to do a quick scan." The crowd murmured uncomfortably at first, but then roared at the name of Loki. The sound washed over Peggy distantly, as she focused on only one thing the iron man said- _space-time continuum_. Peggy had once read H.G. Well's book _The Time Machine, _but it was ridiculous, if somewhat fascinating, fiction. Even the powers of the Red Skull's mysterious cube had seemed more plausible than spontaneously travelling through time via some sort of grenade.

She shook her head and looked back at the floating armor, debating on whether or not to make a run for it. The people seemed to trust the armor or whoever was in it to the point of worship, which was either a good thing or a very bad thing, and Peggy was leaning towards the latter for safety's sake. So, carefully, she began to maneuver her way through the crowd, hoping that whatever this 'shield cordon' was it wouldn't be tight enough to let a lone woman secret agent slide through. She smiled when she saw that it wasn't-just a few sleek black automobiles and men in suits stopping the flow of traffic. They were even letting pedestrians walk out of the square at certain points, where agents waved odd looking batons at passerby. Unobtrusively, she tucked her gun away and straightened her clothing and hair. Lengthening her stride, she checked her watch as she approached the cordon, and composing a harried look on her face, graced the men with batons with an apologetic smile. Two of the agents nodded back, the third waved his baton, and she made to walk past.

The baton beeped at an alarmingly high pitch, making everyone in the vicinity flinch in alarm.

"Damn it," Peggy swore. She ran, sprinting past the barricade, kicking off her high heels in mid-stride. The men behind her shouted something that she didn't hear. Sirens blared-the automobiles starting up. Instantly, she darted into a side alley, trusting it not to be a dead end. If this was New York, it wasn't a New York she knew, not that she was too familiar with the city in its entirety. Fortunately for her, the alley let out, only blocked by a chain-linked fence, which she climbed easily, despite her skirt. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder as her stockinged feet hit the pavement-the first of the agents was only halfway to the fence. She turned her head back, looking straight, only to skid to a halt. The armored man hovered before her, palms held out and glowing with what she assumed was some kind of weapon. Instantly she whipped out her gun, though she wasn't sure if it would have any effect. Behind her, the chain-linked fence rattled as the men pursuing her vaulted it. She was trapped.

"I assume you want me to drop the gun?" she said evenly, before the armor could speak, not letting any fear enter her voice.

"Well, considering I'm wearing a suit made of titanium-gold alloy that's deflected a lot worse than your revolver, I don't particularly care either way. But yeah, for the buddy-cop-ness of it all: drop your weapon! Do you want me to read your Miranda rights? Or wait, are you British? Do Miranda rights apply if you're British or do they send you straight to Gitmo?"

Peggy ignored the weird rambling and the request to drop her weapon, instead focusing on one part of what he'd said. "So you are a man, then?"

"Right, you definitely aren't from this side of the universe. Where do you hail from? Asgard? I gotta say, nice try on the blending in thing- you don't look like you're from a renaissance fair, even if your fashion is a few decades off. And I thought Thor would have gone all myths and legends on his buddies and spun glorious tales of battling the Chitauri alongside the great defender of earth, yours truly."

There was really no other answer to that little spiel other than "What?"

"Right, how about this- you fell through some sort of space hole, yeah? That's why we were able to pick up low levels of gamma radiation off of you. So where do you come from?"

"London, originally, New York, recently," she said shortly. "I have no idea what you mean by Asgard or Chitauri, and you still haven't answered my question. You are a man?"

The faceplate flipped up, revealing a startlingly familiar face. "Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, playboy, and philanthropist. Not to brag-"

"Stark?" she cut him off. "As in related to Howard Stark?"

The man frowned. "Regrettably," he hedged. "He was my father."

"The very idea of Howard procreating is absurd, and you are old enough to be _his _father," she pointed out. Stark, if that was really his name, looked at her in slack-jawed surprise for a moment.

Before the man could say anything, though, one of the agents surrounding her made an exasperated noise. "Enough bantering with the 084, Mr. Stark. The anomaly needs to be taken to the helicarrier. Miss, if you'll drop your weapon?" Peggy complied, knowing she was outgunned. She ground her teeth as one of the agents stepped forward, took her gun, and handcuffed her. She only just held back from disarming the man and using him as a hostage to flee only because she had no idea what sort of firepower the armor had. If the man in the suit was truly a Stark, then it was probably ridiculously powerful and seriously deadly, and there was no way she could tangle with that all on her lonesome.

"Ooh you are really crimping my style there, g-man. JARVIS, make a note- this man is never allowed to be my wingman on a date with a pretty lady ever again," said Stark.

"Wait, g-man?" The term was familiar to Peggy, though she was not necessarily the biggest fan of the detective and gangster films always playing in the cinemas. "You work for the government? The United States government?"

"Yes. We're agents of SHIELD," said one of the men, and before Peggy could ask what that meant, the agent turned to address the man in the floating armor. "Mr. Stark, if you could please set down, that would be helpful. We'd like to land the quinjet without impeding too much traffic."

Stark obliged, setting down next to Peggy as the helicopter-plane-thing-a quinjet, she supposed- made to land. As it did so, she noticed the logo emblazoned on it's side. "Ah, so SHIELD is an acronym," she commented. "What exactly does it stand for?" She asked as the quinjet touched down, hatch at the back opening up.

"Strategic Homeland Intelligence, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," said the red-headed cat-suited woman who emerged from the back of the quinjet, cutting off whatever it was that Stark had opened his mouth to say. "I'm Natasha Romanoff, and I'll be your escort. Go home, Stark-this isn't Avenger business. If it is, I'm sure you'll find out. Boys, head back to HQ for debrief, you haven't got the clearance for this," the woman commanded effortlessly. To Peggy's surprise, not a single protest was offered, not even from Stark.

He just flipped his faceplate shut and flew off, calling "Hack you later!" over his shoulder. The red-head's curls bounced as she shook her head, muttering something under her her breath. She looked up and smiled at Peggy warmly, even though it didn't quite reach her cold grey eyes.

"Please, come aboard," she said. The agent at Peggy's back gave her a little push, giving her no choice but to do as the woman asked. Peggy's stocking feet slipped a little on the metal of the ramp, and the woman caught her elbow, swift as a striking snake. Peggy flinched. Romanoff's grip was gentle, but Peggy had a feeling that it could easily turn painful. Romanoff just guided her to a seat and strapped her in, before calling "Alright, let's go," to the pilot. The hatch lifted, blocking off Peggy's view of the street, and leaving her feeling very trapped, and not just because of her handcuffs. Romanoff reminded her of Dottie- her Russian would-be assassin. That feeling was only solidified as Peggy watched Romanoff move with cat-like grace to sit across from her even as the floor of the jet rattled and quaked with liftoff. Romanoff sat, crossing her arms and leveling a casual stare at Peggy, features open and almost friendly. Peggy found it sinister. This woman was clearly an extremely well-trained agent of some sort. Any show of friendliness was just that-a show, and it reminded Peggy too much of Dottie for her to let it go.

Refusing to be intimidated, Peggy lifted her chin and raised an eyebrow. "Is it the outfit?" she asked.

Romanoff raised her own eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I was just wondering. After all, I've never seen a man say no to a beautiful, seductively dressed woman before."

"Considering that this is actually a standard field ops uniform, no, it isn't the outfit," replied Romanoff.

Peggy smiled. "I didn't think so."

Romanoff narrowed her eyes into a deadly look that suited her far more than the carefully-schooled friendly expression. Peggy met her glare with a cool look of her own. Peripherally, she noticed the copilot look back at them and flinch before turning to the pilot and muttering something in a worried tone. She would have sworn up and down that the engines changed pitch and the quinjet flew even faster.

The ride was brief, which suited Peggy, as it meant that they couldn't be too far from familiar-relatively familiar, she supposed- territory. The quinjet set down with a gentle bump, and Romanoff rose gracefully to pull something out of a cabinet located near the exit hatch. A mask of some sort, Peggy realized as Romanoff affixed one to her own face. Then she noticed the second one.

"I'd rather not," said Peggy as the woman approached.

"And I'd rather not have to carry you inside once you keel over from lack of oxygen. We're at altitude. It's just an oxygen mask," said Romanoff matter-of-factly as she affixed the second mask to Peggy's face. She then unstrapped Peggy from her seat and pulled her up by the handcuffs. "084 secure. Drop the hatch," she called to the pilot. The hatch lowered, and Romanoff took her by the elbow and guided her out.

"An aircraft carrier!" Peggy exclaimed, surprised at her surroundings. "But what's that noise?" She was on the edge of shouting to be heard over some massive whirring noise.

"Rotors," replied Romanoff. "And it's helicarrier."

Heli-carrier? Peggy mused over the word as she allowed Romanoff to guide her inside the ship and take off her oxygen mask. Carrier, obviously, because that was what the ship was, but 'heli'? Like 'helicopter'? And what did Romanoff mean by rotors? Then it clicked, and she stopped dead in the hallway. "That's impossible," she stated. Even the massive Valkyrie wasn't nearly as huge as an aircraft carrier, and it had taken HYDRA years to develop the correct propulsion, Peggy knew. There was no way that this ship was _flying._

Romanoff rolled her eyes. "Obviously not. Now get moving," said the woman, giving Peggy a little push.

Peggy complied, but asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"To a holding cell for interrogation."

Well. That sounded positively lovely. Peggy counted the steps and turns they took. Romanoff was too dangerous to try and escape from, Peggy knew instinctively, and right now there were too many agents and workers walking through the halls, so her best hope was to make an escape from the holding cell and make it back to the surface later. She definitely wasn't rated to fly one of those bizarre quinjets, but when push came to shove- she tilted her head as something beeped and Romanoff put her hand to her ear.

"Sir?" asked the redhead, then paused, as if listening. Then she said, "Sir, the 084 isn't of Asgardian origin. I can make that judgement, considering my familiarity with Thor. No attempts beyond the initial, sir." She frowned, listening to whomever she was conversing with for a long moment. "Yes, sir, I will." She hesitated. "Sir, if I may, are Barton and Rogers back?"

At that, Peggy gave a very slight involuntary flinch. Substitute Barnes for Barton, and Romanoff sounded exactly like Peggy used to when questioning Colonel Phillips about the Brooklyn natives' whereabouts back during the war.

Romanoff noticed her twitch, and gave her a questioning look. Peggy tilted her chin challengingly, but said nothing. Romanoff narrowed her eyes and said "Yes, sir," to whoever she was talking to before taking her hand away from her ear. She didn't say anything to call Peggy's bluff, however, she just continued to guide Peggy deeper into the bowels of the ship, until they reached a dead end in a large and circular room containing a glass-walled cell, which Romanoff all but shoved her into, unlatching her handcuffs simultaneously.

"Well, isn't this lovely?" Peggy said, rather at a loss, as she watched the glass door slide shut neatly, Romanoff fiddling with some sort of control.

"Isn't it?" replied Romanoff. "I actually don't think you're enough of a threat to be put in here. But, orders are orders. Right?"

"Of course," answered Peggy, setting herself down on the edge of the cell's cot. Much to her surprise, Romanoff sat down as well, settling into a chair by the control station. "Not leaving, then?" she asked.

"And here was me thinking that I'm such pleasant company. Eager for me to go?" asked Romanoff in an even tone.

"I was hoping to have a bit of a lie-down, actually, but I suppose as long as you're still here, we will converse," Peggy replied.

"You...wanted to take a nap?" asked Romanoff, disbelievingly.

"Yes, well, during the war you learn to sleep whenever you can, because you don't know when you'll next get to rest. I'm sure it's a policy that you're familiar with. I haven't slept for…" Peggy looked at her watch and frowned. It read 00:29, which would fit with the elapsed time since she last checked it, but at the same time, that had been about midnight, whereas now it was light outside. "Many hours. In fact, do you have the time?"

"13:04. Is your watch wrong?"

"Quite," said Peggy, not denying it.

"What time does it say?"

Peggy frowned, but saw no harm in answering. "00:30, now. Why?"

"Why is your watch wrong?" asked Romanoff, not answering.

"Why is the afternoon when a half hour ago it was midnight?"

Romanoff tilted her head curiously. "It was midnight a half hour ago?"

"Judging by the fact it was sunny when I exited your quinjet, I'd say it was 12:35 a half hour ago."

"Right," deadpanned Romanoff. "So why is it, then, that you spontaneously appeared in Times Square approximately a half hour ago emitting low levels of gamma radiation."

Peggy's first instinct was to reply "Sorry?" because she had no idea what Romanoff was talking about, but she refrained, letting no surprise show on her face. "Why is it that I should be arrested immediately after spontaneously appearing in Time Square?" she asked instead.

"Because the last person to appear in a similar fashion immediately killed upwards of fifty people in two days, before opening up a wormhole that nearly led to the destruction of Manhattan. You'll have to forgive us for being cautious," said Romanoff dryly.

"Understandable, I suppose," said Peggy, thinking back to the way the crowd in Times Square had responded to Stark's pronouncement. "I assume that this 'last person' is that 'Loki' the man in the armor was talking about back in the square?"

"Correct," said Romanoff with a nod. "Which really begs the question: where have you been for the past four years? Tony Stark's identity as Iron Man is known worldwide. Loki's attack on Earth even more so."

"Assuming this 'SHIELD' is a federal agency, as the agent earlier implied, my whereabouts in the past four years are classified information. Assuming this is not a federal organization, I must kindly ask you to go to hell," Peggy replied, not letting a trace of her concern show. As strange and surreal as her situation already was, it was getting stranger by the second. She was out of her depth, she knew-thrown into a situation she really had no hope of understanding. The absolute best she could do was roll with it.

Romanoff smirked at Peggy, looking patiently amused. "SHIELD is in fact a federal organization. Do you need to see my badge?"

"I do."

Romanoff rose with her typical sinuous grace and pulled a badge from one of the pouches along her belt, holding it up to the glass. Peggy came close and inspected it. It was...well, it was a badge. Familiar only for the fact that it carried the same symbol that had graced the side of the quinjet and the walls of the carrier. Peggy studied the stylized silver eagle and pursed her lips. If anything, it was oddly similar to the logo for the SSR. She pulled her own badge from one of the cleverly sewn-to-be-invisible pockets in her skirt and presented it to Romanoff. "I am an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. If you truly do work for the United States government, then we are on the same side," she said simply.

Romanoff didn't so much as bat an eye, but for some reason, Peggy felt as though she had deeply surprised the redheaded agent.

"I need to speak with the director," she said after a moment of silence, tucking her badge away and turning, walking away. "Make yourself comfortable. Take that nap."

**Before Peggy could even open her mouth to reply, Romanoff was gone.**


	3. 2:People Have Long Days in Every Century

A/N: WARNING THIS IS A LONG A/N

This is basically a bridge chapter, so plz forgive me for being a little boring.

Apparently, I don't know how to get angry. Like seriously, writing this tense-argument thing was a lot harder than it should have been. So, I sort of copped out. I guess. Also, that was why this thing was so late.

GASP! Steve's POV! And look-Hawkeye! I meant to do this cute little Steve-Peggy-only thing, but it seems like all of the Avengers are making an appearance. I wonder how Thor and our resident rage monster will wiggle their way into my plot… we shall see!

Much in the way of thank you to my super-kind reviewers, followers, and favorite-ers! Favoriters? Is that a word? Whatever, you all deserve invisible intangible cookies!

NOTE: I SAW AGE OF ULTRON. My mind broke halfway through the movie, in a semi-good, semi-bad way. Either way, this story is really truly and AU and doesn't comply with current canon anymore.

OTHER NOTE: Seriously, I am so sorry this took so long. Like, I feel this super-deep guilt for making all-a-y'all wait. Unfortunately, senior year has this way of kicking in your teeth at the end.

Disclaimer: I lack the ownage. Avengers is a Marvel thing, which I guess is a Disney thing? I forget how it works. Basically, you cray-cray if you think I own anything other than the plot. The plot is MINE. (Mwahahaha…)

Uhh...language warning? Shield your eyes, young ones! (Embarrassingly, it's used very inelegantly. When I swear, I don't do it in English, so when I write, my mind goes Japanese/German/Huttese/Chinese/Welsh/Spanish before remotely even thinking of normal english swears, none of which would really make sense in the situation, so...)

TL;DR: I suck and am mean but things are happening.

...

Chapter 2: People Have Long Days in Every Century

Steve liked the STRIKE team, really, he did. He'd been working with them ever since SHIELD offered him a paycheck after New York, and he's gotten used to each of the team members idiosyncrasies. Sometimes, though, they were absolutely impossible to be around.

Now was one of those times. To be fair, the STRIKE team was strung out on post-mission lack of sleep and adrenaline, forced into the tight and uncomfortable quarters of a transport plane for a twelve hour flight. Steve knew frayed tempers were inevitable; it was just blowing off steam.

No amount of intellectual awareness, however, could change the fact that the plane ride was going to be absolutely miserable.

Steve had a bit of a temper, he knew, but he wasn't exactly hair-trigger. Rumlow had managed to set him off in the first ten seconds after boarding, simply because the man would not stop badgering Courtois, the newest addition to the team, about his performance on the mission.

Some of what the senior tactical officer was saying was good advice-advice Steve would have given himself. Later. Not in front of the rest of the team. Rumlow was just about giving the poor kid a full dressing down full of biting sarcasm and acerbic snark, smirking all the while. Courtois looked stoic, and Steve had to give him credit, but his stony silence was just encouraging Rumlow to make sharper digs. Finally, (probably about 20 seconds after the plane took off) Steve snapped. Enough was enough, Rumlow was downright bullying the kid, and Steve positively despised bullies.

Only, Barton beat him to the punch.

"Shut the hell up, Rumlow. It was the kid's first mission. He's learned his lesson about not checking his blind spots," said Barton shortly, interposing himself between Rumlow and Courtois.

"Oh yeah? He almost cost us the mission! The entire thing was a fuck up after he tripped up," snarled Rumlow, getting in Barton's face.

"It was a fuck up from the start because you failed to brief us on the fact that an entire fucking army was holed up in the complex!" snapped Barton. "Why the hell would you just skip over that extremely pertinent detail?"

"I _said _during the briefing that their numbers have fluctuated between 5 and 20 and that we'd be going in blind!"

"5 and 20? There was 40 men in that complex! There's six of us!"

"Oh yeah? That didn't stop you in New York, _Avenger," _snarled Rumlow.

Everyone froze. Barton paled, inhaling sharply. Derricks and Noh stopped muttering to each other on the other side of the cabin, carefully eyeing Clint and Steve. Courtois flinched slightly, his stony expression slipping. The roaring of the plane's engines suddenly became extremely loud in Steve's ears.

New York was a taboo subject for the STRIKE team. For all of SHIELD, really. Agents of SHIELD were specifically trained to handle crazy situations; it was their job description. New York had taken things to new levels of crazy, Steve had learned (honestly, for him, an alien invasion was really only about as crazy as waking up in a different century), and SHIELD hadn't been able to respond. Instead, they had to place their faith in a loose collection of unstable individuals. And when it looked like they were failing (even though they _weren't) _it was SHIELD's nuke that had nearly obliterated Manhattan.

The Avengers had saved the world, not SHIELD, despite their affiliation, and everyone knew it. To SHIELD agents, the Chitauri invasion was an embarrassment: a failure to do their jobs correctly. Barton and Natasha were reviled for their participation in repulsing the Chitauri as much as they were revered for it, because they were the only agents of SHIELD who had actually done their jobs that day, or so it was perceived.

Steve had long given up on deflecting admiration by doling out praise to others at SHIELD, because things got too awkward too fast.

New York was taboo. Everyone knew it, including poor culturally and socially inept Steve.

He stood up, looming over Barton and Rumlow by a good half-foot. "You are both out of line. Agent Barton, Agent Rumlow is not to blame for faulty intel. Agent Rumlow, the incident in New York has no bearing on this situation. _Everyone _performed admirably this mission." He allowed only the barest hint of his carefully reined-temper to show in his voice, and was granted with the dubious pleasure of both of the shorter men flinching slightly and looking away from his challenging blue glare.

"Sit _down," _he ordered. Rumlow complied with a surly look on his face, moving over to sit closer to Derricks and Noh. Barton hesitated though, looking back up at Steve, his face unreadable.

Steve liked Barton, despite the circumstances of their first meeting-perhaps even because of the circumstances of their first meeting. Right before the Chitauri had come pouring from the sky, he had sought out Natasha and found her tending to Barton with a care that belied her deadly nature. The archer had quietly yet firmly insisted on going out to fight. For him, it was a matter of honor to beat Loki. Steve knew very little about the man at that point, other than the fact that he mattered to Natasha and fought with a bow, but he understood and respected Barton's need to stand back up after getting so brutally pushed down. The wry smile that Barton had given Steve after he invited him along to their little saving-the-world party made him think that maybe Barton reciprocated that respect.

For all of that though, and for all of the missions Steve had run with him since New York, Steve still knew very little about the man beyond his uncanny marksmanship, his honor, his tendency towards wry humor, and his unswerving attachment to SHIELD's deadliest assassin. Uncertain what Barton wanted from him, Steve favored the archer with a slight nod and moved back to his chosen seat, pulling out his sketchbook and opening it to a new page. A few moments later, Steve's enhanced hearing made out the archer's light-footed steps taking him back to his seat, and the slight creak of the archer's body settling into a seat on the opposite side of the cabin from Rumlow.

Steve sighed quietly. The tension in the cabin was palpable. So much for making peace.

God, was that even his job? Did he have the authority to dress down Rumlow and Barton? With the Howling Commandos, his position as leader was clearly defined, his team stable. Here, sometimes he led, sometimes he offered strategy, sometimes he simply went where he was directed. And the team itself was fluid and ill-defined. Rumlow and Noh were the only regulars: Barton and Natasha were sporadic presences, Derricks cycled his position with two other men- Smith and Achebe-and Courtois was a recent addition of dubious status. Sometimes it was teams of two, sometimes it was the whole group, sometimes Steve was sent in alone. It was strange and frustrating and Steve wondered repeatedly what the hell Fury was thinking.

But it wasn't like he had much of a choice. Sure, in theory, Steve could just take off. Leave all of this crazy spy-commando-assassin stuff behind. It wasn't like he was completely lacking in skills- it felt like he'd done everything from acting to floor sweeping, and surely those jobs hadn't changed _too _much from the 40s. Stark had even given him a crash course on technology use, to the point where Steve actually knew how to use his phone and laptop effectively, and the billionaire had even offered a stipend if he ever felt like breaking away from the "Evil Government Overlords," as Stark had put it.

And that, of course, was the fundamental problem: Steve didn't trust SHIELD, not entirely. He trusted Barton and Natasha, had trusted Coulson, and even, to a certain extent, trusted Fury and Hill. But the tesseract, Loki, Phase 2, the nuke-everything that happened that led to the Battle of New York- showed Steve exactly how little he could trust the machinations behind shadowy government organization that Peggy Carter had founded.

In that way, he didn't have a choice. His doubts held him in place. His doubts about the government, doubts about this new modern world, doubts about himself…

His pencil tip snapped, and he flinched. It took longer than it should have to dismiss the surge of adrenaline prompted by the sound _so, so _similar to the sound of a hobnail boot on Black Forest pine needles. He looked up, reorienting himself. Sometime during his introspective sketching session, Rumlow had set to snoring. Noh and Derricks weren't bickering anymore, but they still looked a bit post-mission jumpy. Courtois was slumped in a boneless way that implied deep sleep. Barton, he saw with a quick glance over his shoulder, was mending an arrow.

Steve looked down at his sketchbook, previously empty sheet filled with messy thumbnails-mission impressions, the curved edge of a Chitauri craft, an eagle diving. A black streak caused by his snapping pencil marred the corner of an eye that in life would have been a dark brown pool of sparkling amusement.

Steve closed the sketchbook, not quite snapping it shut, tucking it back into his carry all. He leaned back in his seat, trying to force images of her from his mind. It had been four months since they kissed goodbye, but it had also been just under 70 years. The man that woke up from the ice was different from the man who had gone under, he knew-somewhere between the culture shock, alienation, and Tony Stark, he'd gained a seriousness and a sense of cynicism that didn't fit with the bright-eyed optimistic kid-from-Brooklyn he'd once been.

It was with a lingering sense of mourning for that kid and his dreams deferred that Steve fell asleep, neck tilted awkwardly against the seat, the rumbled of the plane making any position uncomfortable. The feeling-emotional and physical- bled into his dreams: restive, fleeting snatches of memories of war and planes and falling from the sky, of brown eyes and curls and bravery. Of a dance that never happened, of a future far stranger than he could have imagined, of sketches peeling off pages and transforming into a terrifying alien armada. Of the vast and unknowable universe he glimpsed on the inside of the tesseract, pulling at him with an eerie force beyond gravity even as the Red Skull was torn apart.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into waking-which was a bad thing for whoever had touched him, as he instantly lashed out.

"Shit, Steve, calm down," came a familiar, yet pained, voice. _Ally, _registered the tiny corner of his mind that persistently forgot he wasn't at war anymore.

"Clint?" asked Steve, blue eyes blinking up hazily at the archer.

"Jesus, Steve, did you come out swinging like this when you got out of the ice?" said Clint, holding the side of his face. "I need that ice. I need so much ice."

"You know I did," said Steve dryly, then winced as he saw Barton's eye rapidly swelling up. "Er, sorry…"

Clint waved off his apology. "Don't worry. I'll just have to sic Nat on you, she'll kick your ass for me. Besides, I shouldn't have poked you while you were nightmare-twitching."

Steve quirked a smile at that. "Why did you poke me, then?"

"We're back at the Helicarrier. The others have disembarked already. I figured you probably wouldn't want to wake up alone in Indonesia- this jet's being prepped for a flight there," explained Clint, grinning.

"I've always wanted to visit the Far East," mused Steve jokingly, gathering his carry-all. "Thanks for waking me Clint, and really, I'm sorry about the eye."

"Like I said, no problem. Hurry up, though- I think Fury wants to speak with us, and we're going to get our asses kicked twice if we're late."

"Twice?" asked Steve, standing and slinging the bag over his shoulder, heading toward the jet's armory cabinet.

"Hill said Nat's annoyed we're late, and if Hill can tell, that means we're in for one ass-kicking no matter what. If being late to that lovely little reunion makes us late to the bridge, Fury's going to kick our ass again. One, two."

"Twice," finished Steve, slinging his shield over his shoulder and shutting the cabinet. "Let's go."

They both pulled O2 masks on and made their way off the jet. They didn't even make it into the carrier before the plane was being launched back down the runway. Inside, they pulled off their masks together and exchanged a glance.

"Where the hell is Nat?" muttered Clint, voicing what they were both thinking. While Steve knew a only a modicum about their personalities and little about the personal lives of the two SHIELD agents, one habit Steve had cottoned onto was that when they weren't on mission together or unavoidably detained, Natasha and Clint would show up to welcome their counterpart back. Recently, that little habit had even extended to Steve, which was beyond nice coming from the two closed-off assassins. But now, Natasha was not here waiting for them, when there theoretically wasn't any reason that she shouldn't be there.

They came to a realization at about the same time. "Something's happened," said Steve redundantly. Two bags dropped to the ground, but the two Avengers didn't hear the gentle thunk: they were charging through the corridors towards the bridge, bow and shield at the ready. While Steve could have easily left Clint in his dust (not that any such material existed in the pristine hypoallergenic halls of the carrier) he stuck with the archer, and they fell into a semi-instinctive synchronized position: Steve slightly in front and to the left of Clint, shield held defensively to protect both bodies, Clint aiming out beyond Steve's right shoulder for offence. It was in this perfect aggressive posture that they burst onto the bridge, so really it was totally fair of every agent on deck, from Fury to the janitor, to instantly whip out and train their guns on the two Avengers.

Out of everyone, Natasha Romanoff was the only one unmoved. "Weapons down, it's just Rogers and Barton." For a tense second, no one complied-Clint's unwilling attack on the Helicarrier was still far too recent. A death-glare from the Black Widow set them all straight, though, and sheepishly, everyone tucked away their weapons.

Steve slung his shield onto his back, and tried for nonchalant: "You wanted to see us sir?" he asked Fury.

"I did," confirmed the man as he slid his gun back into the depths of his black trenchcoat. He glared at them. "I didn't realize that my summons warranted such a dynamic entry, however. Should I ask?"

Steve and Clint both shifted a little awkwardly under the one-eyed scrutiny, but before they could answer, Natasha shook her red curls, smirking. "They figured something was wrong when I didn't show up to kick their asses for being late. Don't worry, you'll get what you're due later," she promised with a wink.

"Er...is there a situation?" asked Clint, paling a little at Natasha's words but admirably brushing his fear aside.

Fury glanced between the three of them like he wanted to scold them, but said nothing, simply shaking his head. "There is in fact a situation. Just over an hour ago, we detected a spike in gamma radiation consistent with a Loki-type portal in the middle of Times Square. When we arrived, we found a female being drenched in the same low-level gamma radiation. We have her in custody currently, in the Cage-she came willingly enough, but she is resistant to questioning and claims no knowledge of Asgard. It's a puzzle alright." He hesitated briefly, turning his back to them, looking out the bridge's broad window. "She also claims that she is an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

Steve froze, a cold feeling running down his spine like ice water. Vaguely, he registered Fury, Natasha and Clint looking at him-even Hill glanced up at him from her station. It was kind of like a punch to the gut, courtesy of the past; for a few moment he found he was unable to breath. A woman. An agent. The SSR. He closed his eyes, again having to push images of Peggy from his mind.

"Do you require me to interrogate her to determine the truth of her claims?" he asked in a stilted, far away voice. Natasha gave him a subtle pitying look as he spoke, which wasn't fair at all. Pretty much the only thing he knew about Natasha was that she had a dark and painful past- far darker than his. It wasn't fair that he should be hurt so badly by his past, and that she should feel badly for him because of it.

Fury inclined his head. "If you'd be willing."

Steve nodded, not quite trusting his voice enough to speak again.

"Steve-" Clint broke off, looking uncertain.

Steve's face was stone, blue eyes empty, posture military-perfect. Basic training was so unbelievably easy to fall back on, especially when most of his life he'd been required to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of everything from insults to injury. Clint and Natasha didn't quite get it-deadly as they were, they weren't military-but they understood enough not to say anything more.

"Bring up the display, Hill," ordered Fury, and a hologram winked into existence before them.

The first thing that Steve registered was that the image was clearly captured by the same wide-angled camera that had captured Loki pacing about just before all hell broke loose. He shivered a little, remembering Loki's mad-eyed gaze looking up at him, almost as if the Asgardian was peering straight through the camera and into his soul. The second thing he noticed was that the detainee was not pacing as Loki had. Rather, she was curled up on the cot facing away from the camera, the only visible identifying feature being a thatch of brown curls tumbling across the cot's meager pillow. She moved restlessly in her sleep- 'nightmare-twitches,' Clint had called it. The third thing he noticed...the third thing…

The woman rolled, barely managing to stay on the narrow cot, so that her face was towards the camera. And even though her eyes were closed, Steve would recognize that face instantly, in any century.

Somehow, in a strange, ludicrous, impossible twist, Peggy Carter was in SHIELD custody.

Which, in his shock, was actually kind of funny-according to history, Peggy Carter founded SHIELD, yet here she was being held by them and not one of them had recognized her. He had to choke down a hysterical giggle at the thought.

And then the numb hysteria of shock drained away and he was hit by the reality-Peggy. _Peggy was here. _

He was gone so fast that it took a few moments for everyone on the bridge to register him even moving. There was nothing of his and Clint's previous careful quickness as he sprinted through the halls this time. No, this time, there was no need to check his speed, and he ran faster than he ever had before, to the point where his serum-enhanced heart was pounding, his lungs begging for air. Obstacles like corners and SHIELD agents were nothing to him, and had the doors not all been open-a tiny part of his mind realized that Fury must've figured out what he was doing and ordered them opened-he would have smashed through them all like the glass and metal were paper.

It was a run that took seconds, yet to Steve it was an eternity, because for the first time since waking up on the wrong side of the century from her, he had hope.

He skidded to a halt by the Cage's controls, having to rein in his prodigious strength so that he didn't break the console when he tried to poke the button to open the cell. The super-strong glasslike material that made up the Cage's walls slide open. Now that he was here, he almost felt nervous. What if it wasn't her, after all? It shouldn't be, right? Could he have merely hallucinated, projected the image of his dead love's face on some random brunette simply because Fury had mentioned the SSR? Surely, that was far more reasonable than Peggy Carter-unenhanced and not frozen in ice-actually being young and alive in the 21st century?

Cautiously, he walked into the cell, right up to the woman on the cot. She was still moving-'nightmare-twitching'-her lips forming a word soundlessly over and over. Steve's breath caught in his chest. She was whispering his name in her sleep. Peggy-because she was undoubtedly Peggy Carter, Steve saw- was alive and well and dreaming of him.

"Peggy," he said softly, reaching down. His still-gloved fingers brushed gently across her cheek. Her eyes snapped open instantly.

Suddenly, Steve recalled what Clint had said earlier, as the archer had held his bruised face: _'I shouldn't have poked you while you were nightmare-twitching.' _This sudden realization and his enhanced reflexes were too late to save him, though. Peggy's fist shot out in a perfect rabbit-punch to his nose, breaking it instantly. Steve reeled back in surprise, blood pouring down his face. Swearing under his breath, Steve grasped the bridge of his nose and snapped it back into place before his rapid healing could kick in and heal it up crooked. Tilting his head forward, he ripped off his right glove and turned it inside-out, holding the absorbent inner lining up to his nosebleed. It would stop in a few moments, but enhanced healing or no, head wounds bled-

He looked up, nosebleed forgotten as he heard a voice that he hadn't heard in four months, a voice he'd thought he'd never hear again, saying his name.

"_Steve?"_

…

BONUS A/N: Heeheehee, cliffie, I am mean and I revel in it.


End file.
